


it's getting too loud, alone in the crowd

by bvrnie



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends, M/M, POV Richie Tozier, Pining, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Unrequited Crush, anyways this is a wreck but i love my boys, i'm trying so hard please love me lmao, they are all clowns and i love them all., unrequited? are we sure richie?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 03:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21293177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bvrnie/pseuds/bvrnie
Summary: For now, he was taking Eddie to school everyday, and not even Sonia Kaspbrak could ruin that.Or: The Losers all live in different parts of New York City, and Richie Tozier goes the extra mile for one very special boy.
Relationships: Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris
Comments: 11
Kudos: 102





	it's getting too loud, alone in the crowd

**Author's Note:**

> hi there! 
> 
> so just like everyone else, i love the clown movie ( and book, i've been reading it but i'm not done, don't kill me ). eddie is my son, my baby boy, must be protected at all costs. anyways, the inspiration for this fic came from the fact that i'm literally always vacationing to new york city and some pretty hilarious nonsense ensues. 
> 
> this is going to be a collection eventually but i'm lazy, please forgive me. there is more story coming though, i promise. and so much sad shit tee hee :-) angst is my love language! this is also unbeta'd so sorry for any mistakes. 
> 
> thanks for reading, ur all angels.

He's been awake for less than a minute, and the world is already saying _beep beep, Richie._

His phone chimes loudly from where it lies next to him, casting its light on the ceiling and making blue blobs in his tired vision. Sitting up, he reaches to cease the annoying shrill, sighing in relief when the silence falls again, blackness with it.

"Bloody fucking hell," Richie says in his British Voice, yawning. In the dark, he fumbles around for his glasses, shoving them nearly violently onto his face. _Ah, the gift of sight_, Richie thinks, staring into darkness where one questions whether the dark mass in the corner of his room was dirty clothes or a serial killer.

He taps the home button on his phone. _Let there be light!_

The screen illuminates several notifications. A couple missed calls from his Mom followed by text asking if Richie was home. Clearly, Richie quips, reading the other text notifications and not bothering with a response. Next comes Stan, and Richie opens the text up immediately, a wild glint in his eyes.

> **stan lee urine**: yes, it is actually called a bushtit. like an american bushtit? you're so annoying.

Sticking his tongue between his teeth as he grins, Richie types out _your mom's a bushtit_, and sends the text, starting to get up out of bed. His feet touch the floor hesitantly, wood feeling cool under his bare feet as he pads over to his closet. His clothes are in a heap on the floor, a confusing pile of clean, questionable, and not-so-clean. After pulling apart the options, he comes up with something somewhat presentable: a black long sleeve shirt saying **STRAND BOOKS, NYC** in bold white lettering that Richie _definitely_ stole from Stan, a jean vest that he and Beverly have been doctoring and changing since middle school, and black jeans that have seen better days. Looking in mirror in his room, he shrugs, same old, same old.

Richie picks up his bag that he carelessly tossed into his room, feeling the weight of the textbooks and notes and other nothings strewed inside. For a boy who never opens his backpack once he gets home, it was a real bitch to carry.

"Yowza," Richie says, slinging it over his shoulders with a dramatic sigh. He adjusts the straps, always does, figuring out what feels best for the day (which, Stan and Bill always give him shit for. "It's juh-juh-just your buh-buh-bag, Richie. You wuh-wuh-wear it every day," Bill said to him in eighth grade. "_Just_ my bag? I'm in a committed relationship with this bag, Big Bill, and I like to keep things fresh," Richie said, and Stan had rolled his eyes).

Door opening without a squeak, Richie creeps into the hall. The steps taken are nearly silent, calculated and habitual. Being up so early in comparison to everyone else really makes you feel like a ghost: silent and nonexistent. Though Richie has felt like a ghost in this house for a long time, and not just at four in the morning -- some things just don't go away when the sun comes up. At the door, he stuffs his foot into one of his Chucks -- it was the black pair, laces dirtied and sharpie along the white trimming. When he swaps his weight to his other foot, he avoids the floorboard near the door that was particularly squeaky, not wanting to wake his parents. They're tired enough as it is. Begone, vile spirit, Richie says to himself and laughs a little, headed out the door and down the stairs. Pulling on his headphones to ease his easily distracted mind, he finds his way to the bottom floor, opening the door to the apartment building with a whistle.

"Fuck," Richie says.

The air that hits him on the street is cold and unpleasant, causing a full body shudder. _Today in Queens, New York, we see an adolescent male regretting his decisions. Will he survive to the Subway station? Let's observe,_ the Voice is his Documentary voice, something he used to do to annoy Stan with his obsession with National Geographic. Seriously, how many pictures of birds can one man possibly look at?

Richie eyes the apartment from the pavement, paused in internal debate. He decides it's too late to go up and grab a jacket; his phone says it's 4:08 AM, and if Richie wants to make the 4:15 train, he's going to need to leave now. So he does.

This early in the morning, it's not really dead. There's a few people walking this way and that because there was always people, it's fucking New York City. Still, this early in the morning, there was something quieter about the city, almost softer. It feels brimming with energy, but only the kind that comes with the beginning of a new day: opportunity lurking at every corner. It was something that seemed to not exist anywhere else but here, in the buildings taller than the sky and among gum sticking to cement. So yeah, Richie is still very in love with the city, obviously.

He gets to the station with two minutes to spare, power walking like a model trying too hard to impress the audience. Richie swipes his certified _MetroCard: Student Pass_, whooping as the turnstile tells him to pass through.

"Swipe one, let's get it!" He says to no one in particular, a girl waiting on the platform throwing him a weird glance. But the warmth in Richie's chest rivals the warmth in the subway car, and no dirty look can take that from him.

—

  
It all started when Richie Tozier was eleven years old.

The summer that year had been particularly unusual, considering Richie wasn't with his parents when it started. His father had a conference in early June, spanning for two weeks, doing whatever a group of dentists do when they're all together. In Richie's mind, it was weird as fuck, and Staten Island was super lame. The only fun stuff that there was to do was for adults like his parents, or old people like his grandparents. Even a young Richie Tozier was not going to be caught dead at bingo. He'll die before age thirty, thank you very much.

Still, his Grandma had tried. She took him to the beach, took him to dozens of museums, and sometimes even a movie (that was Richie's favorite, of course). Sadly, none of it really pleased Richie or entertained him, but what choice did he have? There was nothing better for him to be doing, and by week two, all Richie wanted was to go home to Queens. This was Staten Island, and no matter what, it would _never_ be interesting.

_Until,_

One day, they'd gone out grocery shopping since things were running low back at the house. Deep down, Richie hadn't really wanted to go all that badly, but it beats lying on the floor and doing nothing at all. After a while, deep into shopping, Richie begins to try to find ways of entertaining himself. He begins by making different jokes with the names of brands on the shelves, turning to tell his grandma every one. She laughs, but after a few more tells him to hush, desperately looking over her list.

"Okay," Says Richie, pulling a bottle of honey from the shelves, pointing at the word _Beehive_ on the bottle, "I'll _bee-have_." She gives him a look that tells him that she's nearly out of patience, and Richie feels his ears burning in embarrassment. Waiting until she's back to checking over her list, he wanders off, wanting to be free of this all consuming boredom. Moseying around through the isles, Richie begins reading labels again, saying the names of everything incorrectly and giggling at the sounds. He pauses on an isle when someone catches his eye, stopping mid step to look.

Later, in his adulthood, Richie would debate about whether or not this was fate. Concepts like that are shit, anyways, but somehow he'd ended up on the isle at this exact moment. It doesn't feel like a mistake.

Down said isle, he sees a boy standing on his tiptoes, reaching for a box of something medicinal that is just out of his reach. Looking at his stature, he's surprisingly short, even at his absolute tallest. It wasn't for lack of effort though, since his eyebrows are pushed together and his tongue is peeking out of his mouth. His little hand is opened wide, fingers outstretched, straining as if that fraction of an inch will get him the box.

Even then, it was like magnets. North, meet South.

Richie walks over and pulls the medicine box off the shelf, _Hydrogen Peroxide_, and puts it in that tiny hand. The boy stops straining, seeming to notice him now, nearly jumping ten feet in the air.

"Oh! Uh, thanks," His voice is quiet and polite, looking up at Richie with big brown eyes, fluttering dark eyelashes. There's a redness spreading on the boy's cheeks, bringing out the freckles that dot along his nose. _Cute, cute, cute_, Richie had thought, stupidly.

"Always happy to retrieve some hydrogen peroxide," Richie says, but twists the words hydrogen peroxide, pronouncing it as heady-rogen pero-city. The other boy's brow furrows, fingers clutching around the box as he gives Richie a weird look.

"You know it's not pronounced like that, right? Can you read?" The boy asks, pointed. A grin breaks across Richie's face, hand coming up to fix his glasses.

"Reading is subjective," Richie tries.

"No, it isn't. You either can read or you can't," The boy responds.

"You can do anything if you believe hard enough," The insistence is met with a wrinkle of the nose, lips pursing as Richie attempts to argue his point.

"Things do not work like that," One of the small hands moves from the box to fix a brown curl that fell out of place, and Richie tracks the movement, not sure as to why he's so keen on _watching_.

"Yes, they do," Half-hearted, distracted, heat prickling under his collar, and _why, why, why._

"No! They don't!" Snapped, exasperated, quick as a whip. Richie grins impossibly wider.

"Well—"

"Eddie!" The voice echos, and the other boy jumps guiltily and turns toward it.

"Coming, mommy!" He calls, shoes squeaking a little as he starts to walk away, giving Richie a glance over his shoulder, "thanks again."

Later Richie gets an earful for walking away, but he hardly hears it, because all he can think is _Eddie, Eddie, Eddie._

—

Turns out, Eddie lived close by his grandparents.

Richie asked if he could visit next summer.

"I thought you hated it," said his Grandpa.

"Nope," said Richie, popping the 'p.' In fact, Staten Island had gotten much more interesting.

—

  
  
On the train ride, his phone chimes.

> **stan lee urine**: this is stan, not eddie.

Richie sends him a photo flipping the camera off.

> **stan lee urine**: :-)

Annoying bastard.

—

_This_, Richie thinks with delirious elation, _is what I get up at 4 AM for_.

"Hey, Staten Island," It rolls off Richie's tongue easy, the same way it has hundreds of times before, familiar like always buying the same ice cream flavor (and just as sweet). Eddie Kaspbrak always looks perfect, and today is no exception it seems. His hair is put perfectly into place, jacket and jeans ironed straight, shoes whiter than milk. A scarf is wrapped around his neck tightly, hands hidden in matching gloves, because of course Eddie has matching gloves.

"Still not a geographical location, Rich," Eddie says, walking past him briskly and letting Richie turn to catch up. Quickly, he falls into step with the shorter boy, limbs practically on autopilot to sync their walking. Once they set into a proper pace, Richie sees Eddie eying him, gaze landing on his shirt, "You shouldn't even be allowed to wear that shirt. You don't even buy books, let alone know how to read them."

It's so dry that it makes Richie laugh, bubbling within him like champagne, spilling out between his teeth. Any exhaustion Richie harbored is long gone, instead he feels loose and giddy. It makes him feel free in an unhinged way, like a bike riding down a hill too fast with no brakes in sight. Turns out, it's also straight up _terrifying_. This feeling is inevitable when Eddie is near, no matter how much of an attempt is made to squash it down, much to the dismay of Richie.

"Well, Eds, if you really insist, I can always take it off," Richie says before he can stop himself, mentally flipping himself off for his lack of filter. _You actually can't shut up, can you?_ Stan taunts in his mind, and Richie mentally flips him off, too.

"Ugh, please don't," Eddie says, with a roll of his eyes, adjusting his backpack strap as they continue to walk.

  
  
"That's not what your mom said last night," _There we go. Classic Trashmouth. _

  
  
"Can you please not talk about my mom this early in the morning? I'm being sincere, the sun isn't even up yet," Exasperated, Eddie reaches to rub at his eyes, as if to showcase his point.

"It's never too early to talk about my sexual prowess with Mrs. K. She'd hate to hear you say that, and as your step father--"

"Beep, fucking beep, Trashmouth!" A shoulder knocks against Richie's arm hard, making him step out a little, laughing again as Eddie sputters. Yep.

Same old, same old.

—

The train is far more crowded on the way to Eddie's stupid private school, seats and bodies filling the space and making for a cramped ride. Richie is taller than Eddie and far lankier, but his height puts him at advantage for creating space. He walks Eddie through the bodies, finding a spare seat that's open and moving to crowd it so Eddie can sit. The routine is instilled in Richie so deeply that this is second nature, becoming a human shield for anyone who attempts to get too close.

Today, Eddie sits and is scrolling through pictures on his phone, nudging his foot against Richie's as they ride. It is endlessly distracting, even small things like this, making Richie's palms sweaty where they grip the bar holding him upright. Here's praying that the train driver doesn't break too hard. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Richie adjusts himself as he stands next to the smaller boy, stealing glances as Eddie switches the song playing through his headphones.

  
  
Before he can be caught staring, Richie looks around the train car, desperately hoping for a distraction. Unfortunately, he finds one: a couple standing next to each other, a boy and a girl, smiling as they're talking. A pang of jealousy goes through him like the strike of a lightning bolt. The boy raises his fingers and strokes at the girl's brown hair, pushing it behind her ear. Richie doesn't even have to properly see to know the look they're sharing. After all, he's felt it mirrored on his own face a hundred times, a thousand.

(And he's fucking eleven again, eleven and in that isle, fingers fixing curls so they look pristine. _Perfect_.)

The girl reaches up and grabs the boy's hand, holding it in both of hers, standing up on her tiptoes a bit more to be closer. The space between them is so small, like their own little world, wrapped up in each other where no one can disturb them.

Richie gulps, knowing that watching this is fucking weird and he should definitely stop, but he can't look away. This feels like a special torture, stamped _RESERVED FOR TRASHMOUTH,_ planting thoughts where they do not belong. _Look,_ the world taunts, _you can want it so bad it almost kills you, but you can never have it. Not with him._ Eddie's foot chooses that moment to nudge his, and _that_ breaks Richie's attention, gaze snapping back with an air of panic. It looks like it was out of habit, though, since Eddie is still distracted by his phone. A small part of Richie is thankful, he doesn't know what expression is on his face, but he imagines it would be fucking obvious.

_Would you let me hold your hand?_ It's so soft, so vulnerable in his usually chaotic mind, it's almost a stranger, _would you let me fix your hair like that? Would you want to always be closer to me?_ A thousand questions, and no answers, but it's not like he has the voice to ask anyways.

Getting off at the next stop is a relief, the air becoming suffocating in the train car, choking Richie slowly with his own pitiful desperation. The cold is welcome, now, snapping him back into place like a loose limb. Eddie begins to talk about the germs he was potentially sitting in, lathering his hands in sanitizer like it was a holy ritual. They walk side by side again, arms brushing, so close to what Richie is aching for that he can fucking _taste it_ \-- but he silences the thoughts away before they can get any louder.

Eddie lets him be around, and that's enough.

It has to be.

—

  
  
By the time they reach the school, it's 6:25 AM, but that's a normal time for Eddie. He likes to be _early_ and perhaps even _study_ before classes, which is downright insane. Still, this proves to be Richie's second least favorite part of the day, losing to the first, which is having to go back to Queens after walking Eddie home. It's not like Richie won't see him the next day, but soon they'll graduate, and who knows when Richie will see Eddie then.

The thought puts a sour taste in his mouth, and if he lets Eddie rant about things for a moment longer than usual, then they don't mention it.

At the gate they stop, turning to face each other. Richie isn't allowed on the property since he isn't technically enrolled or whatever the fuck, and it's against the school regulations, which are a bunch of bullshit anyways. Also, apparently, they'll call good ol' Sonia Kaspbrak if they see them together, courteousy of her suffocating paranoia about her son. Being banned from the house wasn't enough for her, clearly, Richie was to be banned from Eddie's life entirely. Which could very happen at the end of senior year, which is just peachy.

Fear begins to crawl up his spine, wrapping around its cruel fingers around his heart, squeezing painfully tight. _Fuck. Is there a Guinness world record for ruining your own mood? Jesus,_ at this rate, he'll have a headache before his first period even starts, which isn't an option. Shaking his head, Richie attempts to pull himself back to the present: for now, he was taking Eddie to school everyday, and not even Sonia Kaspbrak could ruin that.

"Okay, weirdo, you've stalked me enough," Eddie says, but it has no bite. He's bumping his shoulder against Richie over and over, looking up at him through his lashes. It makes the air so hard to breathe that for a moment, there's a question of who's actually asthmatic.

"Always a pleasure, old chap," It is met with an eye roll and a huff, and Richie's heart jackrabbits in his chest. _He's so fucking cute._

"Dude. It's been years and the English voice is still bad. Just give it up," The smile playing at the edges of Eddie's mouth say otherwise, though, and Richie can't resist a bit once it starts.

"I'm 'fraid I can't do that, guv'nor," He continues and Eddie groans, reaching up to slap a hand over his mouth. Richie stops breathing for a moment, then licks the offending palm, hot and wet across the fabric of the gloves. The shorter boy squeaks, pulling his hand away and wiping it on his jeans frantically as if Richie had licked his actual hand. _There's_ his germophobe.

"Ew, Rich! You're so fucking gross!" Their eyes meet and hold. Something in Richie's gaze has Eddie taking a step back as if he's readying himself for action, brown eyes glinting with challenge. This feels _good_, it makes Richie feel lightheaded and excited and like a child. They're playing, like they always do and it's the best game ever, Street Fighter be damned, " don't you dare, Richard. I will kill you."

"C'mere, Eddie Spaghetti," Stepping forward, Richie reaches out and grabs Eddie's wrist, snatching it faster than the shorter boy can dodge. Most of his wrist is covered by the gloves, but Richie's ring finger and pinky press to bare skin. It's smooth, softer than velvet because Eddie moisturizes, and it's so hot that it almost burns. Then Richie is reeling him in, voice falsely innocent, "I just wanna see your hand for a second." He makes a show of sticking his tongue out, making Eddie squawk and squirm and bat at him.

"Let me go, Richie, or I will punch you!"

"You? To quote mister Marshall Mathers, your palms are sweaty and your arms are heavy. So what the fuck do you think you're gonna do?"

"Are you _really_ quoting fucking _Eminem_ to me again? Are you serious, Rich— "

"Oh, good morning Eddie," A voice cuts through their conversation, soft and polite. Eddie yanks out of Richie's grip so violently that it almost hurts Richie's fingers, stepping away to put space between them again, "Hi Richie."

"Hi Myra," Richie says, feeling his mood suddenly plummet six feet under. Of course it's her, because why would good things ever happen to Richie? Myra walks closer to Eddie, standing beside him, looking at Richie through lashes clumped with heavy mascara. Her hair is curly and styled, lips slick with gloss, clothes pristine and ironed. When her gaze moves to Eddie, lips parting in a smile, a very lovely lump makes home in Richie's throat. A manicured hand lands gently on Eddie's arm and something in Richie winds tight, making him stiff and uncomfortable. His skin feels too tight, every bone in his body nearly vibrating with the temptation to just turn heel and leave, but Richie is stuck staring at Eddie, and what else is new? The hand draws the attention she was wanting, of course, Eddie's gaze darting away, the absence feeling like a physical touch.

"Hey," Eddie's voice sounds soft, and Richie _throbs_ with envy, fingernails digging into his palm, "I'll catch you later, Richie." It's accented with a small wave and half smile before disappearing over Eddie's shoulder. Together, they walk onto school campus, and when the wind gusts afterward, Richie shivers.

It really is fucking cold.

—

It wasn't like Richie didn't know any better, in fact he knew almost too well.

Back when he was younger, during the summers spent in Staten Island, Richie overheard a great deal. Before he was banned from the Kaspbrak house, he certainly wasn't a favorite, and his rambunctious nature didn't do him any favors. There was something about Richie that made Eddie mouthier, or at least that's what Sonia liked to say. Sometimes when using the restroom, Richie would hear her on the phone with her sisters, gossiping when she thinks Eddie won't hear.

_There isn't something right with that Tozier boy,_ she said venomously, _he's dirty, and I don't want him near my son._

One of those summers, Eddie had introduced Richie to Myra, but not on purpose. It had been chance that Richie had come over and she was already there, speaking to Eddie like she knew him. There was something about that made Richie distinctly uneasy, and has ever since. As it turned out, she did know him, almost since birth because her mother was best friends with Sonia (who knew Sonia Kaspbrak could have friends? What a fucking _concept_). All their lives, their moms had been playing matchmaker, and by that time Richie was old enough to feel the way it stung to hear.

( "Do you even want to be with her?" Richie whispered once during a sleepover, darkness making him bold. Like this, he can't see Eddie's reaction and can still keep that little flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe...

"I guess so, yeah," Eddie murmurs passively, shifting a bit, "I mean, I've known her since I was a baby, dude. Nobody else knows me like that."

_That_ hurt just a little too much, and Richie nursed the wound all summer, staying up far past his bedtime while staring blankly into the dark. On those nights, Richie would think of Eddie, curled up and falling asleep, whispering into blonde hair. The air had almost burned his lungs when he breathed, and somehow that thought was worse than any nightmare he'd had in years. )

So, yeah, all things considered, that fucking sucked a whole fucking lot. The alternatives are too daunting to think about, so he just doesn't. This was what it was, and what it always would be, even if Richie has to shatter his heart like glass and swallow the shards. For Eddie, he could bleed himself dry.

For Eddie, Richie could do _anything_.

—

The train ride back without Eddie always felt much longer, and the tiredness always came with it. Luckily Richie is sitting this time, and relaxing feels much easier in this position. He's debating whether or not he wants to take a nap, to reserve his energy for the long day ahead, but his phone chiming puts that thought to bed.

> **stan lee urine**: are you on your way back from your rescue mission yet?

Richie texts back _yes, dad,_ feeling every bit like Stan's adolescent son rather than his own parent's.

> **stan lee urine**: want anything from the corner store? me and bill are stopping before first period.

To that, Richie sends back a message that's all emojis: bacon, egg, cheese. Instead of locking his phone like normal, he waits until the little bubble is marked read, practically seeing Stan's eye roll through the phone.

> **stan lee urine**: you can literally just say you want a bacon, egg, and cheese. you can type that like a normal person.

_Blow me_, types Richie.

> **stan lee urine**: still not eddie's phone, trashmouth.

Richie leaves him on read.

—

The long commute for Richie always makes him late. His first period, by sheer dumb luck, is his Statistics. Ever since middle school, Richie can practically sleep through the whole thing and still do the work. Numbers, patterns, data -- it was all straightforward and easy to him. Most of the time, there was a set answer, and a way to get to said answer. Real life was not so simple, even if Richie desperately wishes it was.

Stan is sitting in the desk beside his when Richie arrives, paying attention to the class like a good little student. Quietly, he makes his way to the desk to sit down, Stan's gaze quickly flashing to him to acknowledge his presence.

"Thanks for finally joining us, Mr. Tozier," Drawls his teacher, Mr. Marsing, the short, balding asshole. If there was a definition of tool in the dictionary, this teacher's face would be plastered right next to it. He wears a button up and a tie every day to class, like, who does that? These are high school kids, who gives a fuck?

Richie opens his mouth, ready to fire back, but Stan reaches and yanks him down into his chair before any words come out. The class continues with the usual droning voice and boring notes that Richie is definitely not paying attention to. Instead, he lets his mind wander, tapping his pencil against his desk rhythmically for something to do. He's not trying to think about Eddie, not actively, but it's hard not to.

Richie thinks of Eddie messing around with his phone, fit between those hands that are still so little, even after the growth spurts they've gotten. His own hands are much bigger, fingers longer and palm wider, and Richie thinks that he'd dwarf those tiny little hands if he ever held them. Not that he'd ever get the chance to, but it's a nice thought. The closest he'll let himself go is grabbing Eddie's wrist, and that alone feels dangerous. He thinks of earlier, how warm and soft Eddie is, and wonders if the rest of him matches.

"Earth to Trashmouth," Stan says next to him, pointed yet endlessly patient. Richie comes to, shaking his head a little, glancing at his friend.

"What's up, Stan the Man?" Richie asks, as Stan waves a lump of foil in front of his face as if Richie weren't wearing his glasses.

"Your food? Unless you'd like me to throw it away," It's not dignified with an answer, Richie reaches and grabs it from Stan's hand, unwrapping it and taking a too big bite.

"Thanks," Richie says.

"Please don't talk with your mouth full," Stan's look of disgust is sharp enough to cut diamonds, and it only makes Richie try to take a bigger bite in retaliation. Instead of continuing conversation, Stan watches him finish his food in record time, handing him a peach tea Snapple to chase it all down. Then, "how was Eddie?"

"He was good," Richie says automatically, nervously picking at the label on the bottle, "same shit, different day, y'know? He told me I shouldn't be allowed to wear this shirt since I can't read."

"You shouldn't be allowed to wear it because it's mine," Stan replies dryly, eyeing the garment warily, "How was it even in your room? You know what, never mind — I don't want to know."

"Aw, c'mon, Staniel. I look good in it."

"Good is not a word I'd use to ever describe how you look."

"Ouch. It's okay, Stanley, I know you only have eyes for birds. Why jerk it to me when you can jerk it to _National Geographic_, right buddy?" Richie is grinning like a madman, endlessly entertained by whittling at Stan. _But it's not as fun as Eddie_, his mind whispers.

"Shut up, Richie," Stan huffs, going back to his school work in an attempt to ignore him.

"Don't be shy, Stan! We accept you! It's okay to have Big Bird on speed dial—"

"Beep Beep, Richie."

—

Sixth period was Physical Education, and Richie hadn't shown to it since the year started. Who wants to run around and be sweaty and uncomfortable? _Okay, I'm definitely spending too much time with Eddie_, Richie thinks, as he heads toward Beverly's apartment since she lives within walking distance. The temperature had raised a bit since the sun had come out, but it wasn't by much. By the time he gets to said apartment, he's shivering a little, fumbling for his phone to text Bev that he's here. He doesn't even get the chance to send the text, because Beverly walks out and sits on the stairs as if she'd been expecting him.

"Well hello there, Richie," She greets, smiling up at him as she puts a cigarette in her mouth, lighting it up. Her green eyes are glinting with something, and Richie swallows self consciously under her gaze, feeling like a bug trapped beneath the microscope.

"Be a dear and let me steal one of them cancer sticks, bumpkin," Richie drawls in his Southern Belle Voice, pointing to the cigarette pack in her hand. Beverly rolls her eyes, giving him a fond look as she offers it, then the lighter. The first inhale of the cigarette feels like a warm embrace after the uncomfortable morning he had. Another inhale of nicotine has Richie feeling a little buzzed, tingling down his spine and soothing his jitters. He mentally makes a note to remember to ask Bill to buy him some gum (he owes Richie this time) so that it's not obvious that he's been smoking. Eddie doesn't like it, and Richie doesn't want to argue on the walk home.

They smoke in companionable silence, and Richie really likes that about Bev. She doesn't make him feel pressured for a response, or to say the right thing, she always knows exactly what he means.

"Hey, you thirsty?" Beverly asks as she puts out her cigarette, lashes fluttering as she looks up at Richie, "my aunt has that juice you really like upstairs. It's too cold to just sit out here."

"Raggedy Ann, how can I ever deny Twisted Tropical Punch? Lead the way, dahling," Richie responds, preferring not to freeze his dick off in the cold.

Beverly's aunt, Lydia, was frantically looking around the apartment when they walked in. She gives them a quick look and notices Richie, throwing her hand up in a half wave as she struts by them.

"Good afternoon, Rich. Bev, honey, have you seen my purse? I can't find it," Beverly gives him a look, then rolls her eyes as she laughs under her breath.

"It's by the toilet, remember? You came home sick and left it there," Richie works hard not to smile at that, Lydia making a frustrated noise from the living room, heading toward the bathroom.

"Must you embarrass me in front of _all_ your friends? Don't make me pull out the baby photos, Beverly!" Lydia threatens as she heads back toward the door, ushering them toward the kitchen so they get out of her way, " I'm running late, so I'll make this quick. I didn't get the chance to go grocery shopping this morning, so there's some money on the table for a pizza. Please put the dishes away before I get home, it's your week for that. If Rich is staying, you can both have a beer for the night. A beer, Beverly, it's a school night. I'm off. Bye."

"See you!" Beverly calls as the door slams shut. She whirls on Richie with an apologetic smile, walking past him and reaching up into the cabinet for a glass, "you know, I'm glad you're wearing your vest. Some patches I ordered finally got here so you can add to that damn thing." She walks to the fridge and bumps hips with Richie as she passes, making him grin at her.

"You really know how to make a gal feel special, darlin'," He quips, continuing his Voice from earlier.

"You're _something_, alright, not sure if it's special," She teases, pouring juice into his cup and handing it over. Richie drinks the red liquid, savoring the fruity tartness on his tongue.

"Thanks babe, I can always count on you to back me up," Richie responds and he watches as Beverly's expression changes, sly and knowing in a way that makes his palms sweaty. She puts the juice back in the fridge, stepping toward him and leaning into his space.

"You can have them, by the way," She whispers as if it's a secret, and Richie swallows thickly.

"Have what?" He asks, dumbly.

"My swipes. That's why you're here, right? To get my student pass so you can walk Eddie home. Am I right?" Punching Richie in the gut would have had the same effect, all the air exits his lungs in a burst, and he feels himself flush down to his neck. Bev knew fucking everything, and it was the best and worst thing about her.

The shitty thing about heading up to Staten Island everyday was that it took two swipes from his Metrocard. The student passes were only allowed three per day, Monday through Friday (so weekend trip? More like get fucked), until 8:30 PM which really meant 9:00 PM. If Richie was going to walk Eddie home, he could only swipe once on the way there and then would be stuck for the night. _That wasn't always a big deal,_ Richie thinks, _I used to just be able to stay the night at Eddie's. Glad I fucked that one up._ Still, the business of having to ask his friends is welcoming teasing and questions that Richie doesn't want to answer.

He flounders, nervous. "Um. I mean, if that's cool, you know -- you don't have to give them to me, I can always ask somebody else--"

"You can have my swipes, idiot. Besides, who am I to keep the lovebirds apart?" If Richie was blushing before, he's really blushing now. He hates knowing that he's so terribly predictable to his friends, but another part is relieved that he doesn't always have to explain himself. Here, with Bev (and Stan, of course), he's safe to have his feelings regarding Eddie and that's comforting. It feels good when he doesn't have to hide it.

"Shut the fuck up," Richie snaps, but there's no heat in it, "I should have never told you that."

"Told me that you like him? I mean, isn't it kind of obvious? You literally go to Staten Island to walk him to school everyday," It's too much of the truth and it makes Richie's stomach twist with embarrassment. He knows exactly how it looks to outsiders -- that he's painfully pining after someone who won't ever really want him like that, but Richie thinks he could be contented with loving him from afar. Sure, that shit really fucking hurts when he's reminded that Eddie will fall in love and _be_ with someone else, but cutting him out is too much. The ache of his feelings never being reciprocated feels like a small price to pay in comparison to losing Eddie forever. Beverly notices his silence, eyes turning soft, voice coming even softer, "why don't you just tell him, Richie? At least let him know how you feel."

Richie is shaking his head before she can even finish. "Beverly, I can't. I can't do that. It will ruin our whole fucking friendship, he'll over analyze everything and never want me near him again. You should have heard what Sonia said when gay marriage was legalized, it was absurd and -- and -- she just like, fucking _thinks_ that shit, so who knows what she's made him think."

Beverly considers this, fingernails tapping lightly on the counter. Then she sighs, reaching out to smooth one of his curls down. "You've known him longer, so you might be right. You also might be wrong, and I can't stand thinking that you're letting yourself be unhappy when it could be different. You're a real asshole to yourself, you know. Give yourself some credit."

"Okay," Richie placates, thinking that he is most definitely right. The turn in conversation tires him out, so he naps until he has to leave to head back to school. Beverly gives him a hug on his way out, and then grabs his hand before he can walk away from her door.

"Hey. Patches, remember? My aunt practically invited you over, so why don't you come back and stay the night?" It's an attempt to lift his mood, Richie realizes, because Beverly knows what it's like to hate being at home. Richie nods, giving her a two finger salute on his way out.

—

Not a second late and smelling of mint and Axe Body Spray (thanks Bill), Richie Tozier is ready to take on the world. 

"Hiya Eds," He had to twist the greeting around in his mind for a few minutes so that he didn't sound overly excited. It's stupid, really, to be practically bouncing in place once Eddie is in his line of sight, but Richie doesn't care. The rest of the world fucking sucks, his life feels like a shithole, and this feels like the only good things he really has.

"Don't call me that," Eddie snaps on instinct, once again speeding past Richie and making him turn to catch up. As the afternoon progressed, the weather only seemed to continue to turn, wind blowing even colder than this morning. The movement of walking is somewhat keeping Richie from completely being frozen, but not by much. He doesn't complain, though, because time with Eddie was for enjoying and Richie would always make the best of it.

They talk back and forth about nothing in particular, bickering over the new _Daredevil_ issue, huddling into the train car. This time there were two seats open, and Richie and Eddie took advantage, sandwiched side by side in the cramped space. This was always a dangerous occurrence, and everyday it felt more and more difficult. Richie's left side is tingling, Eddie's heat searing him through the fabric of their clothes.

Richie unlocks his phone as a distraction, opening Stanley's chat. He begins an iMessage game, the one with the sliding penguins, knocking two of Stanley's off in the first turn.

> **stan lee urine**: fuck you

The game bubble pops up in a couple of seconds, Stan managing to get three of Richie's penguins off. This means war! Eddie shifts beside him, attempting to get comfortable while reading something on his phone, draping his legs over Richie's after a moment. Richie nearly chokes on air. Oh. He attempts to have no visible reaction, but the intimacy of the gesture strikes him square in the chest. It feels like an electric shock, a defibrillator, bringing him back from the dead and into the world of the living. _Holy shit_, Richie thinks, moving his left hand to rest atop Eddie's knee, feather light. He wonders, briefly, if Eddie will smack it away and tell him not to touch him. He lingers for a moment, fearful, but the slap never comes. Eddie lets him do it, and Richie likes when he's trusted enough to just _casually_ touch Eddie. Not everyone gets the luxury. His fingers tingle, and when Stan reigns victorious, Richie is only a _little_ mad about it.

_here i thought you loved birds._

> **stan lee urine**: yeah but not your birds

_those are my sons you're talking about._

> **stan lee urine**: shut up and walk your boyfriend home

It's the second time Richie sends a photo flipping off the camera, Eddie giggling beside him.

\--

Richie always drags his feet on the walk home. This is by far the worst part of the whole day. Any time that he gets with Eddie now feels fleeting and insignificant in comparison to what he used to have. There's a part of him that's envious of his younger self, angry that he didn't cherish the time he had when he had it. He sees Eddie's house coming up on the street and feels like the energy is draining out him, step by step.

"All I'm saying is why install these bullshit cameras in Manhattan but not fix the train? MTA has the money to install cameras but not fix the several broken elevators and closed stations? It seems fucking slimy to me," Eddie has been rambling about the train since getting off the subway, though Richie finds it humorous that he doesn't spend much time in the city to know. It's cute when he gets passionate though, so he's been letting him go, grin on his face.

"Maybe you should run for mayor, Eddie Spaghetti. I'd vote for you for sure," Richie can see him in a little suit, angrily going off into a microphone, making a whole career out of bitching. Eddie scoffs at this, jamming his shoulder into Richie's arm.

"Yeah, right. You just want to be able to spill all my secrets to the public," He says, his lips turning upward.

"Edward, I'd _never_."

"Ew, please do not ever call me Edward again."

"As your step father, _Edward_, I find this to be appalling behavior! Me and your mother will have to have a chat tonight, young man."

"Shut the fuck up, asshole. Stop talking about being my stepdad, dude, it's fucking _weird_," Eddie scrunches his nose up and Richie thinks _weird, but worth it_. They stop in front of the house, and Richie raises his hand in his signature salute.

"Have a right good evening, old chap," Richie gets the British Voice in one last time, just to watch Eddie roll his eyes. He's rewarded with the reaction, arms folding over Eddie's chest in the perfect image of exasperation. Richie grins ear to ear, turning on his heel, taking a deep breath in preparation for the walk back.

"Wait!" Says Eddie. Richie pauses, turning back around to look at the other boy. A flush has risen on Eddie's cheeks, and his gaze lowers to his shoes once as he fumbles, "um, it's just — you — and, um." Eddie takes a deep breath and steps toward Richie, and suddenly the air feels impossibly hot, blood thundering loudly in Richie's ears. Small hands reach for the scarf that Eddie is wearing, dark blue and soft looking, lifting it over his head. Then, slow and careful as a man trapped with a wild animal, Eddie places the scarf over Richie's head, standing on his tiptoes to make it work.

Richie isn't moving, isn't so much as _breathing_ out of fear that Eddie will recoil. His whole body is thrumming like a live wire, the fabric is as soft as he imagined and warm because Eddie was wearing it seconds before, and _holy fuck_ it smells like him --

"Eds?" Richie prompts, voice hoarse.

"Well, you just fucking come out of your apartment wearing that. Like, what kind of person just fucking _does_ that? Can't you tell how cold it is? I don't want any blame for you getting fucking pneumonia or the flu or something and _dying_," Eddie is rambling, but his cheeks stay flushed, lips forming into a pout as if he's afraid that Richie will tease him for it. He doesn't.

"Um, thanks," Richie says instead, awkward, feeling his own blush at how close they are. That makes Eddie snap his jaw shut, looking at Richie with a wary expression before he reaches to fix the scarf a little. It makes Richie's heart swell three sizes, it feels impossible to breathe around it, the fondness he has for this boy.

"You're welcome," Says Eddie, looking up through his lashes, now impossibly shy. His teeth wear on his bottom lip and Richie is trying not to look, because all roads in that direction are perilous, and because Richie really fucking_ wants to kiss him_. He could kiss Eddie right now, cradle that cute little face between his hands and lean in; he'd press their lips together and _finally_ know what it feels like to answer the question he's asked himself a thousand times. Instead of any of these things, Richie lets Eddie step back away from him, eyes avoiding Richie's as he mumbles out, "I'll see you tomorrow."

"See ya, Spaghetti," Richie replies, breathless, heart pounding in his throat. He watches as Eddie walks up the steps and opens the door, their eyes meeting one last time before the door shuts, Eddie giving him a small smile. Richie grins in response, waving dopily, feeling every bit like a lovesick moron.

—

If Richie is still grinning like an idiot when he arrives at Bev's, that's his fucking business. Still, when Beverly takes him to the bathroom and lights a joint to split between them, something in her eye says that she definitely has questions.

For now, she asks, "good night?"

"Yeah," Richie breathes, "good night." 


End file.
